


Hot Stuff

by midgetnazgul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Firefighter!John, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2704385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midgetnazgul/pseuds/midgetnazgul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock causes the best small disaster of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> Work is a one-shot drabble inspired by an ask I saw getting around Tumblr last night. Bullet-pointed ideas used and firefighter!John in general credited to the illustrious aconissa on Tumblr. [You can find her here!](aconissa.tumblr.com)
> 
> Title credit goes to the incredibly helpful whybenedict~
> 
> I am _considering_ doing more, but I honestly don't know if I have time and if I do, it will be separated scenes as chapter, jsyk~
> 
> And I mean...the potential for firefighter!John sex is p enticing lbr here

It wouldn't be until much later that Sherlock would realise it was the secondary reaction in the smoke is what really took him down and left him splayed out on the floor, staring dimly at his ceiling. He was currently far too occupied with how heavy and oppressively warm he felt. As he shifted a hand, he could feel something smooth and curved against it, fallen alongside him. It gave a low ringing sound as it moved – a fire extinguisher. A shadow fell over his field of vision.

~

The flat didn't seem like much from the outside, but then being in the centre of the city as it was, people were willing to clamour even for the most unassuming real estate just for the location's quality. So, John didn't mourn it terribly as he kicked in the door and stomped upstairs without a further thought. The kitchen door was open, smoke pouring from it as well as the second door adjacent to it. What had gotten the fire noticed was the thin trail of smoke that just made it to the exterior windows. It was bigger than one would think looking from the outside, but still manageable. He nearly tripped as he made his way into the room proper, having entirely missed the thin body stretched on the floor and partially under the burning table. Adrenaline spiked John's heartrate. First things first, then. John saw a hand shift almost imperceptibly – good start. He leant down and picked up the victim with almost zero effort, careful of the shattered glassware all over the floor and table. However he couldn't help a bit of a smile seeing the victim still wearing safety goggles.

_Points for trying, I suppose._

A couple dozen boot-clad steps later, John and his charge were out on the kerb together. They'd beaten the ambulance yet again, so he took initiative in hauling the man over to a free oxygen tank, laying him carefully alongside the truck and hooking him up to a mask, once the smoked goggles and his own gasmask were done away with. Then, the basics: pulse, a touch erratic but strong enough, check; burns, just a bit on the hands, probably from the initial small explosion; other injuries...glass bits here and there. Absorbed as he was in his analysis, he didn't see his charge come to and open his eyes until he buckled and gave a pained hiss under his hands. However as John hovered over him to keep him still, their sightlines met and it took John entirely too long to get past admiring the colour and shape of his eyes in order to speak again.

“Hey, take it easy. You're safe, now, but you need to keep it still, there're some cuts. Okay?” John wrangled his sentences together, his tone just barely departed from his usual light-but authoritative one. The man almost immediately stilled and gave a weak nod. Despite his injuries and obvious dazed state, his gaze still seemed keener than anyone John had ever met. As if even now, debilitated and semi-conscious, he could still outsmart John and his entire squad with ease. John's train of thought broke as the ambulance came screaming up. His patient noticed, too – when EMTs burst out and made a beeline for them, his eyes shot back to John and for a split second, he could have sworn he saw regret simmering there just under the pain and smoke-induced confusion. John instinctively reached in again at Sherlock's upper arm, since it was free of injury.

“They'll take you down to A &E. I've got your flat, hm? Everything's going to be fine.” John hadn't meant to, but a distinctly charming and not-entirely-professional smile lit his face anyway. He got a dim smirk in return before the EMTs swept in and John had to back off. He slipped his mask back on and headed back to help the others.

~

It took a little over an hour to put out the fire, make sure it stayed out, and vent the room of the worst of the fumes. However John had to wait another three hours until he had a reasonable excuse to slip away once they returned to the station. He made a beeline for University College Hospital, as he'd had the proper foresight to catch where they'd be sending the man he'd pulled from the burning flat. As he made his way up to reception, however, he realised with dismay he had no idea just who he was looking for. A woman gave him a quick up-and-down as he approached, noting his coat. Her head tilted as she took note of his station number and she looked briefly down at her desk. “Hello. Um. I'm looking for...someone,” John opened hesitantly.

“Tall, curly dark hair? Brought in this afternoon?”

John did a double-take.

“Y-yes...yes. How-”

“The lads that brought him in left a note. Said they thought you'd be back, left your last name and station number. You know his name?”

John chewed the inside of his lip and shook his head. The receptionist looked over her shoulder conspiratorially and leant in.

“Name's Sherlock Holmes. Room 138. I am _really_ not supposed to tell you that, mind.”

“Of course.”

“Go quick before anybody thinks to stop you.”

“Th-thank you.”

He received a wink in return, and John took a moment to contemplate whether or not he should go to mass for the first time in fifteen years to thank whoever was responsible for this bit of serendipity. The nurse waved him towards the door theatrically to give him legitimacy. Given he was still in his work trousers and had his casual station jacket on, nobody really questioned him there until he approached the aforementioned room, at which a doctor and nurse were posted, talking. Maybe he wasn't that lucky after all. The doctor looked up at John before he could flee and held up a hand.

“Family only, I'm afraid. If you suspect arson, you'll have to take that up with the police first.”

“What – no. No, no, I'm...” John tried helplessly, but the doctor gave him a shrug.

“I think you know the rules as well as I do, son,” he said, pointing to John's attire, “And until...”

The doctor drifted off as another nurse strode up, shaking his head.

“I managed a call through to one of the emergency contacts. The brother. Apparently nobody is in-country right now, and couldn't give me an ETA,” the nurse said, completely unaware of the previous conversation. The doctor, however, caught John's sympathetic wince and took a moment to brood.

“What's the patient's name and age?” the doctor asked John.

“Er...Sherlock Holmes...” he stared at his feet and winced. “Th-thirty?”

The doctor shrugged.

“Close enough. If you want to see him, go ahead. He could use some company, I think. Hopefully you're not here to murder him.”

The two nurses stood aghast, but John couldn't help but chuckle along with the doctor. John definitely needed to spare the time for an appreciative confession and religious acknowledgement sometime very soon.

“Feel free to sue me if I do, sir.”

“Perfect.” The doctor stepped aside to let him through.

John mumbled a shy thank you and eased his way through the door. It creaked just enough to  
rouse Sherlock and draw his attention. Distantly, John wondered if he should have brought a get-well  
gift or the like, and inwardly shrunk of embarrassment for his lack of pretense. However Sherlock  
didn't seem to mind, as he gave John a welcoming, if weak, smile. What a pleasant surprise.

“You're the one who saved me,” he croaked. It'd be a while before his voice recovered from all  
the smoke. John pulled over a chair, slid off his jacket, and sat.

“Yes,” he replied, unable to keep a wide smile from his face. By instinct he held out a hand, but  
hesitated as he saw Sherlock's bandaged ones.

“I – sorry – I'm John.”

Sherlock lifted up a bandaged hand and lightly thumped John's outstretched fingers. “Watson, yes? I can just recall from your lapel.”

“You remember quite a bit, then.”

Sherlock nodded, but his expression grew distant and muted before he spoke again. “So are you here to tell me my flat's a charred ruin?” he asked, and while he tried to keep his tone light and unassuming, his slight frown told a different story. John fidgeted where he sat and leant in.

“No, not at all. Some smoke damage, you need a new table and...whatever all that glass was for...but the flat is, overall, fine, I assure you.”

  
Sherlock brightened upon John's initial refutation, but as he turned to watch John again and he continued to described the damage in greater detail, Sherlock instead became fascinated with John's trapezius and bicep shifting as he enthusiastically gesticulated. John wore a simple tank under the coat he'd come in with, and just enough of his pectoral was on display that Sherlock's consciousness faded away into lightly buzzed distraction, though he maintained enough awareness to nod vaguely as John spoke. A rising pitch in John's tone caught his full attention again, though inwardly Sherlock mourned it.

“Sorry, once more?”

“What were you even doing to cause the fire? It all looked rather mad scientist, to be honest. You shouldn't be toying with heavy-duty equipment like that for laughs. And without a vent hood.”

“I am not _toying_ ,” Sherlock sniffed, “I am a graduate chemist, for heaven's sake. But you're correct about the vent hood. I couldn't get into the lab I usually patronise, and I thought it was harmless enough to do without one.”

Sherlock went on to explain his experiment at length, postulating on how the corpse tissue he was working with must have been treated with something without his knowledge, but in all honesty John was too wrapped up in watching all the little characteristic bits of Sherlock's face perform as he spoke – the dimple just there, his eyebrows furrowing, the little head shakes that made the curls in his fringe bounce just a touch. When he registered Sherlock had finished speaking, all he had to offer past a small, punchdrunk smile was:

“Brilliant.”

“You have no idea what the significance of any of that was, did you?”

“Still sounds like mad scientist stuff. Still brilliant.”

Sherlock told himself it was the minor burns making him feel incredibly warm from the inside out. Before he could stop himself, Sherlock raised a taped hand up towards John's head, and though he started a bit, let Sherlock dust lightly at his brow.

“Soot. The fire was hours ago. How have you not tidied up?” If Sherlock had been aiming for chastising, he had failed miserably. John gave a lighthearted shrug.

“Distracted.”

They shared a pair of shy smiles. John's work mobile gave an obnoxious beep; he frowned deeply and opened up to a text.

“Shit. I have to go. I snuck away in the first place, I'm in for some shit. Whatever,” he mumbled to himself as he put his phone away and reached for his coat. Sherlock tried but failed to hide his disappointment, and of course John caught it, sharp-eyed for a reaction as he was. He contemplated a moment before bending over to the side table. He found a pen and pad inside and carefully wrote his non-work mobile. Emboldened by Sherlock's deep blush, he smiled.

“I'll be back to visit again, yeah? Sounds like you might be here for a bit.”

Sherlock bobbed his head side to side in mock-consideration.

“I suppose you're capable of carrying me home.”

John headed for the door, throwing on his coat as he walked. He turned at the threshold to level Sherlock with a stare.

“I deadlift over twenty stone. I could do a lot more than that,” he dropped casually as he swept out the door.


End file.
